


as you watch him fall through a bleeding trapdoor

by brokenspaces



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depressed Peter Parker, Depressed Tony Stark, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, rush job so sorry for any errors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 22:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19094152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenspaces/pseuds/brokenspaces
Summary: At first, he bought into whatever Peter told him. School’s just stressful, he didn’t have time to sleep, he’s just tired. The world kept spinning around him. Pepper didn’t see anything wrong, Happy didn’t report anything, May just looked at him when he asked. And, honestly, he ignored it for a bit. I don’t want to assume, he told himself. No, a smaller voice would shoot back. You don’t want it to be true.





	as you watch him fall through a bleeding trapdoor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnderMyFacade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderMyFacade/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my best friend!!! I hope this suffices as a present!  
> (I wrote this at 12:45 so this is probably not gonna be great but hey we tried)

Tony was falling apart.

Well, to be more accurate, he had been broken and bent and burned and, time and time again, gathered up those pieces by sheer force of will and learned how to paint over the cracks. There was no falling apart when all the pieces were already scattered. 

“I’m a mess,” he would joke. See, the funny part was that he  _ was _ , a mess of shattered bits and blood and scraps in a cave. He knew that and he could live with it. That was true enough. He could live with being a half-shattered imitation of a person.

But then there was Rhodey and Pepper and Happy and all those other people stupid enough to help with the pasting back together. When it comes to them, Tony understands very little. But above all of their quirks and their needs to  _ stay _ , Tony never understood that glint in their eyes, something between pity and breaking, every time they found him in shards. He understood it on a base level, of course, seeing a loved one in pain, etcetera, etcetera. 

He never wanted to understand as well as this.

(‘I just wanted to be like you!’ he’d snapped at him, crossing his arms and huffing in such a  _ teenager _ way that Tony’s gut curled. He was so  _ young _ and  _ promising _ , and he couldn’t possibly know how bad things were, how they were going to get, if he tried to follow Tony.)

Peter was a good kid. He wanted to save people, even if it meant getting hurt. He cared and he was a  _ kid _ . Tony learned the hard way he couldn’t keep him from Spiderman, so he did what he does. He made a suit.  _ If you’re sure _ , he teased thinking he was safe. It could protect him from everything he could fit in the damn thing, the kid wasn’t going to be injured anytime soon. 

So why did he look like that?

(‘I’m fine, Mr. Stark!’ His eyes were tired and that shirt fit him a month ago. Who did he think he was kidding?)

At first, he bought into whatever Peter told him. School’s just stressful, he didn’t have time to sleep, he’s just tired. The world kept spinning around him. Pepper didn’t see anything wrong, Happy didn’t report anything, May just looked at him when he asked. And, honestly, he ignored it for a bit.  _ I don’t want to assume _ , he told himself.  _ No, _ a smaller voice would shoot back.  _ You don’t want it to be true _ .

-

It was the voicemails that tipped him off. Happy would always laugh at him when he found him obsessively listening to them as he worked, but it was a comfort. A sort of proof that no matter how big the world was there was still a kid chattering about helping old ladies cross the street or his next math test. Tony tried his best not to mind when they stopped coming every day and then stopped coming every week then just plain stopped. The kid gave up on talking to a voice message box, is all. That was it, right?

(‘What? Oh, uh, school,’ was Peter’s flat response before going back to hunching in the corner of the workshop, mindlessly flicking at a spring.)

So that’s why Tony was sitting in front of the kid’s suit vital screens at midnight, watching the liens dip up and down steadily. He didn’t even glance away, afraid that if he let himself look away for a moment they would plummet. They were even, albeit the breathing weak. That wasn’t the issue. 

The issue was that it was  _ three-fucking-am _ . He watched the kid’s movements across the map. Peter didn’t even seem to be  _ going _ anywhere, just drifting around. So Tony took a deep breath and pressed the override call button.

“Hey kid, what the fuck are you doing up?” 

“Oh! Mr. Stark, hey!” Peter’s voice came in high-pitched and forced. “Uh, I’m not and you woke me up?”

“Kid, I’m looking at Karen’s GPS right now.”

“Okay, yeah, I couldn’t sleep, whoopsie, bye!” Then there was a beep and the call ended. 

-

Tony could’ve stopped at insomnia. Insomnia would explain it. Tired, not focusing, the voicemails. God, did Tony want to stop at insomnia. 

But that vacant look was too familiar, that forced quipping echoed something too close to home. 

Tony used to think the difference between them was that Peter was a kid, he was untouched by this fuckwad called life. Peter was bright smiles and stupid science puns, not this. Tony’s hands shook. He built things obsessively, he drank, he fucked over every relationship he had. It wasn’t the same, just on a base level. Right?

The truth of the matter was this: the difference between Tony and Peter was that Peter was much better at covering up the cracks in his armor.

-

Tony stared at the vitals blinking at him on the screen. It was three am again. The little dot on the map wasn’t drifting around anymore, just sitting on the roof of some building near his apartment. His finger lingered over the call button, but he stopped himself. No. He couldn’t hide this time. He couldn’t afford it.

(‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Peter stated it like it was a fact. ‘ _ Nothing _ is wrong.’ There was a broken power in his words, his voice thick with exhaustion. His face was wet with tears, but he was staring blankly at the traffic below. 

‘You’re crying.’ Tony managed. Peter gave him a bitter smile and it looked  _ wrong _ . It looked familiar.

‘That’s the problem. I cry, I smile, I get hurt, nothing. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t feel anything. I’m crying but  _ nothing’s wrong _ .’)

-

Tony got Peter a therapist. Peter protested, of course, but Tony just had to continue telling him that he was literally a billionare and this was the least he could do. 

The voicemails started again. Doctor’s orders. Every day, Peter would check in. Sometimes the messages were bubbly and nervous, sometimes they were choked up and tired, and on very scary days he was just flat and stiff, going through the motions.

Tony and Peter had movie nights. Tony made Peter stop swinging around at three am. He made sure the kid was eating enough. And sometimes, on the flat days where nothing was wrong, they would sit on the roof and not look up at the stars. 

Tony was still broken. Peter was salvageable. They couldn’t always find all the pieces, and the glue didn’t always stick, but it was a start. 

(‘I’m fine, Mr. Stark,’ Peter laughed, and for the first time in a bit it sounded like he believed it.)


End file.
